


Baghdad Ain't Shit

by buffyaddict13



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character study of Ray through his teenage years through the end of Operation Iraqi Freedom.  Yeah, I suck at summaries, sorry.  I adore Josh Ray Person with the fire of a thousand suns. This is really just an excuse for me to write a big ol' love letter to Ray-Ray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own neither the book nor miniseries _Generation Kill_. This story is based solely on PJ Ransone's portrayal of Josh Ray Person in the HBO miniseries. I mean no disrespect to the real Josh Person or the other First Recon Marines portrayed in the series.

_"Hell, these are Marines. Men like them held Guadalcanal and took Iwo Jima.  
Baghdad ain't shit._ "  
~Marine Major General John F. Kelly

  
  
Josh is 15 when he joins the debate club. He's always liked talking, examining different points of view. His mom's boyfriend says he talks too much. However, his mom's boyfriend is named Rufus which renders anything he says automatic bullshit. His teachers say he doesn't talk enough in class. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.   
  
The other guys on the debate team are total bona fide nerds. They don't have pocket protectors, but Dean's hair is parted right down the middle. You can count the fucking comb marks. And Thomas wears sweater vests, so what does that tell you? Plus, he goes by "Thomas," never Tom, which is kind of fucked up in Josh's opinion. It always make him think of that blue creepy-ass talking train.  
  
There's Dean, Thomas, and Jackson. Jackson's not popular, he's not unpopular, he just is. He does whatever he wants, and manages to fly just under the radar. It's pretty awesome. And the dude actually reads shit. As in, books. Novels written before they were born, even. Graphic novels are great and all (especially  _Preacher_ ), but sometimes you gotta read something that activates the brain cells, you know?  
  
Most of the kids at Nevada East High School are jock assholes and bitch cheerleaders. They act like they're one touch down or blow job away from getting out of Retardville, as if Crest White Strip- sponsored smiles are enough to earn you a scholarship out of this shit hole. Good luck. Seeing as how Josh isn't a jock, he talks too much, not enough, and "makes inappropriate jokes" according to Principal Johnson, he's pretty much fucked. He accepts this with a kind of weary resignation.  
  
Josh Ray Person isn't a big kid. He's naturally skinny and well under six feet, which is the same as wearing a hand-lettered  _Kick Me_  sign on his back. He's comfortable around girls, but most of the ones at Nevada aren't worth talking to. He gets decent grades, has a few friends. He wears Metallica t-shirts, the ones from  _Ride the Lightning_  and  _And Justice for All_ , not the new shit. His sense of humor, smart mouth, and/or stature earn him a black eye or punch to the kidneys about once every two weeks. Josh is fucking sick of being surrounded by teachers too chicken shit to break up fights and students too retarded to have a conversation with.  
  
Jackson changes that. The debate team is working on their topic for the upcoming competition. They're debating what would have happened if Hitler hadn't offed himself, what war crimes he would he have been charged with, shit like that. Josh is tired, he's been sneaking Rufus' Ripped Fuel again. It keeps him awake long enough to read up on the Nuremberg War Trials, to finish  _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ , and e-mail his thoughts on both to Jackson.  
  
The next day Josh is still vibrating his way through classes. He can't sit still, can't shut up. It feels weird. Not a bad weird, just different. It's like he's finally awake. After school the debate club meets in the library.   
  
"You know," Josh says, "Hitler could have avoided all this shit if he'd been getting laid regularly. It's a shame the little mustached fuck didn't meet Eva when he was, like, 20. If he'd been getting the daily recommended dose of pussy, he could have cut out all that killing Jews shit, just left Europe the fuck alone, you know?"  
  
The other guys stare at him. Thomas drops his pencil.  
  
"Are you on drugs?" Dean finally asks.  
  
Josh glares, annoyed. "Fuck no," he says. "I'm just a creative individual. Get used to it."  
  
Jackson laughs. "Speaking of getting pussy," he says grinning at Josh, "wanna start a band?"  
  
* * *  
  
It turns out starting a band does not automatically earn you unlimited pussy. Shit, it doesn't even earn you a limited supply. Especially when you sound as shitty as Josh, Jackson, and Jackson's cousin Shane do. The name Hillbilly Losers doesn't exactly help attract crowds of chicks either. The name is supposed to be ironic, a global fuck-off to Rufus who's called Josh a hillbilly loser on more than one occasion. But when Josh is on stage singing to a mostly empty room, a loser is exactly what he feels like.  
  
Josh suspected they would suck, but it's a little disheartening to learn just how much. Person  _does_  get to feel up Lisa Hatter after they play a particularly awful set one Friday when Josh is a junior. There's even some dry humping involved and bonus: she kisses with major tongue. Josh pretends she's all over him because he's the next James Hetfield--or even Johnny Cash--but the truth is Lisa's just a sweet girl. And a little bit drunk.  
  
The remainder of Josh's high school years follow a pattern: schoolwork, debate club, band practice, pilfering his mom's cigarettes, driving around Retardville on Saturday nights and praying to every god he can think of to get him the fuck out of here. He works at Walmart after school and tries not to wish for death the entire time he's there. Sometimes he succeeds, sometimes he thinks about walking over to women's apparel and hanging himself with the belt of an ugly pink bathrobe. Although everything's made out of such cheap shit, it'd probably break in about one second. Not only would he still be alive and work at Walmart, he'd have to pay for the fucking robe.  
  
Jackson's cousin knows a guy who knows a guy that gets them a gig opening for some gay-ass band named Limp Bizkit. Limp Dick is more like it. Limp Dick sucks, but so do the Hillbilly Losers. Fuck.  
  
The best part of Josh's teenage years are spent reading in the backyard. It's not really a backyard, just a square of dead grass with two lawn chairs that have seen better days. Josh's mom sits next to him and they share Camels and lemonade. They talk about Stephen King's latest book and wonder why everything Dean Koontz writes has turned to shit. Josh rehearses his part in each debate with her until it gets dark and then they watch the fireflies circle the trees like tiny Christmas lights. They talk about Nascar or Survivor and every once in a while Josh works up the courage to pressure her to dump Rufus. She never does.  
  
Sometimes Josh's grandma comes over. Arlene Person is fucking awesome for an old lady. Shit, she's awesome, period. She's always making him homemade peanut butter cookies, buying him stupid little presents. She'll stop people at the grocery store just to tell them her grandson is in a band, like she's proud, like he's talented and not a giant fuck-up.  
  
Grandma Arlene comes to all the debate meets, wolf-whistles when Josh's team wins the semi-finals. She even slips him money for smokes with a sly wink and a _now don't you tell your Momma, y'hear?_  Man, she cracks him up.  
  
Not much else does.  
  
* * *  
  
Two things happen when Josh graduates high school.  
  
The first thing is, Rufus calls Josh a fucking loser who leeches off his mom. This is an interesting turn of phrase, because as far as Josh can see, Rufus has been leeching off his mom for the past five years. At least Josh brings home a pay check and makes his mom smile once in a while.  
  
And, come to think of it, if anybody deserves the title hillbilly loser, it's Rufus. Josh might not have much, but at least he's got all his fucking teeth.  
  
When Josh shares that tidbit of truth with Rufus, it earns him a solid punch to the jaw. Josh goes backwards over the coffee table. His head roars with pain, the bastard hits harder than any of the stupid jocks at Nevada High.  
  
Josh lies on the floor, vision blurred, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He can hear his mother screaming at Rufus, hear her kick him out.  
  
"You can treat me like shit all you want," she spits, "but don't you  _ever_  lay a hand on my son. Get the hell out, you asshole. If you even  _think_  about trying to come back, I'll call the police so fast it'll make your goddamn head spin!"  
  
And that's that. Good fucking riddance.  
  
The second thing is, Josh Ray Person enlists in the Marines.  
  
* * *  
  
His mom acts like he just volunteered for a hot cup of ebola. She cries and hugs him like he's heading for a nineteenth century prison ship instead of Parris Island.   
  
Josh just kisses her cheek. "Mom, I'll be fine. I just want to do something positive. I want to make a difference." He's not sure how to explain it. "I want to...I don't know, matter." It sounds gay, but it's the truth.  
  
His mother looks stricken. "You matter to  _me,_  Josh."  
  
He gives her a crooked smile. "I know." But he wants to matter to  _himself._  As hard as he tries, he can't imagine himself sitting through college classes, and it's not like the Hillbilly Losers are going anywhere. He's tired of coasting through life. He's tired of being a punching bag for assholes, for trying to joke his way out of getting his ass kicked by fuckheads with minds even narrower than their dicks. He wants out of Retardville, out of Missouri.  
  
Of course, what the recruiting officer said about Thailand doesn't hurt, either.  
  
When Josh arrives at Parris Island, the first thing he does is start going by his middle name. Josh sounds like some pansy-ass dick suck who spends all his time writing emo songs, drinking espresso, and mooning over Kurt Vonnegut. Which is exactly what he was doing up until two weeks ago. But Ray? Ray sounds badass. Ray _sounds_  like a fucking Marine.  
  
* * *  
  
Boot camp sucks.  
  
It. Sucks.  
  
He goes in thinking it won't be too bad. At home he'd started running, learned the Marine Rifle Creed, the Marine's Hymn, practiced yelling  _yessir_  into the bathroom mirror like a moron.  
  
Ray's never run so much in his life. He's constantly tired. Everything hurts. Christ, even his hair hurts, and he barely has any left. He gets up earlier than God, learns how to salute and march and march and run and march. He marches wearing all his gear until his callouses have callouses. Popping the blisters on his feet becomes the highlight of his day. He listens to the DI like his life depends on it. And he guesses it probably does. If he washes out of basic it's right back to Retardville, do not pass go, do not stop to collect two hundred dollars worth of Thai pussy.  
  
Ray works harder than he's ever worked at anything. He hikes through mosquito-filled woods, swims through algae-covered ponds, his platoon carries fucking logs down a hill. Jesus Christ, what kind of sicko sadist asshole comes up with this shit?  
  
Aside from being so exhausted he feels high, sometimes it's not so bad. He likes the classes. Learning Marine Corps history, the Core values is actually interesting . And most of the guys here are smart. There are guys from New York and Illinois and Texas and Washington. Guys who know shit, who have goals. Guys who don't give a fuck about politics, who just want to be marines. Guys who want to be the best.  
  
Ray grits his teeth through the endless sit-ups, pushes himself to work harder, faster.   
  
* * *  
  
Ray unlearns everything. He isn't Josh, he isn't even Ray. He's a  _Marine_ . Part of a unit. Part of a machine. Everything he does is the for the benefit of this machine, not himself.  
  
Ray gets the process, the whole break-you-down to build you up thing, so by the time you're done even Steve Austin looks like a pussy.  
  
He learns all the jargon: topside, rack, head, deck, overhead, starboard, etc. ad nauseum. Also, the cardinal rule of marine speak is to never use the words  _I, me, or you_ . You don't say,  _I think this is bullshit, sir._  You say,  _This marine thinks this is bullshit, sir._  Ray finds himself thinking a lot of things are shit over the next few months.  
  
Ray learns close combat training, first aid, combat water survival and weapons training. He likes weapons training. It brings back all those years of playing cops and robbers with toy guns. Only now he gets to play with the real thing. Let those asshole jocks get a look at him now. Ray spends so many weeks carrying around his M-16 it feels like part of his arm. He learns to break down and reassemble the weapon in the dark, in the rain, while timed. And bonus: he's a fucking  _excellent_ shot.   
  
Ray actually cries at the Eagle, Globe and Anchor Ceremony. He's not alone. All kinds of huge badass dudes are sniffling and hugging each other like little bitches. It's kind of awesome. His mom and grandma show up after the closed ceremony is over, beaming. Jesus Christ, his mom even brings him  _flowers_ . But for some reason he's not even embarrassed.  
  
Ray did it. He's a goddamn Marine, a devil dog, a leatherneck. He's never been happier in his life.  
  
* * *  
  
When Person gets to the School of Infantry, he looks like a different guy. He's still short, still thin, but he's muscular, harder. He has confidence. He swaggers. His fellow marines look at him with respect. There's no eye rolling, no insults, no smack talk here. There's just training and doing your job. You actually get paid to be a grown up and learn shit. It's a fucking miracle.  
  
Ray's goal is to end up a recon marine. Which means he's got a lot more shit to get through. But if you're gonna be the best, you might as well be the  _best_  of the best, right? That means he's got Airborne, Pathfinder, Ranger, Sniper, and Combat Diver training. He signed up for four years of active duty, so he's got plenty of time. Maybe by the time he's done he can get a job with some kind of SWAT team. Hell, maybe he'll even sign up for another four years.  _Fuck you, Rufus,_  Ray thinks. _Hillbilly loser, my ass._  
  
Ray's a Force Reconnaissance Marine by the time he's twenty. That's the good news.  
  
The bad news is, he's going to war.  
  
* * *  
  
Bravo Company is deployed to Afghanistan in November of 2001. At the time, Ray doesn't realize just how smoothly Operation Enduring Freedom goes. He'll think about it plenty later, though. Everyone in Bravo is competent and confident. There's Rudy Reyes, who looks like he's been carved out of marble. Jesus Christ, the guy's a fucking Adonis. Everybody's got a crush on Rudy, it doesn't matter if you're gay or straight, animal or mineral. If a marine says Rudy ain't hot, that gent's a fucking liar.  
  
The LT looks younger than Ray. He looks like an unassuming kid, like he should be at Hogwarts making eyes at Hermione instead of giving orders. But Lieutenant Fick's got big balls of steel and doesn't put up with shit from the higher-ups or enlisted men. Best of all, he knows what he's doing. Which almost makes OEF seem easy. Okay, not easy, but tolerable. Sometimes it feels more like an exercise or drill than an actual invasion.  
  
Ray thinks back to the dicks from high school and shakes his head. Christ, there was a time he'd thought he'd spend his life surrounded by assholes. Instead he's with guys like Pappy and Gunny Wynn and Poke and Rudy. His fellow marines and friends. His brothers.   
  
He likes making the guys laugh, especially that tight-ass blond-haired giant Colbert. Ray is Colbert's driver and RTO. Colbert has shit taste in music, he's bitchy, and he's too fucking tall. He makes Ray feel like a goddamn midget. Still, hours stuck together in the same victor--and a begrudging mutual respect--forges a close friendship. They learn to understand each other. Ray keeps track of the maps, the Copenhagen, and Skittles. He knows when he can get away with singing shitty old Hillbilly Loser songs and when to launch into an overzealous version of  _Eye of the Tiger._  Even Fick sings along with that one, pumping his fist just like everyone else.  
  
Brad recognizes Ray looks and talks like an inbred hick, but that's all a facade. Ray Person is a fucking savant when it comes to getting comms to work. Sometimes Colbert even tells him so. But usually he just insults Person. Whenever Brad calls Person a barefoot inbred gap-tooth piece of white trash scum, Ray just laughs like Brad gave him a fucking compliment.   
  
There's only one time during their stay in Afghanistan that Brad gets seriously pissed.  
  
"I've been thinking about this, Brad," Ray says, reaching for the round tin of Cope on the dashboard. "I bet your people wouldn't have ended up fried in all those crematoriums if Hitler had been getting a little more pussy."  
  
The look on Brad's face flashes Ray back to dim school hallways and clenched fists. He thinks,  _shit._  Sometimes he just goes to far. Sometimes he just talks to keep himself awake. He should know better.  
  
But the glare seeps out of Brad's face and he just sighs. "Shut up, Ray," he says, a faint trace of affection in his voice.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray's mom has a bunch of yellow streamers all over the house. There's a banner outside that reads  _Welcome Home Hero_  in giant letters.  
  
Grandma Arlene is standing in the doorway waiving one of those gay little flags people stick on their cars. If they decorate their cars with the stars and stripes, they don't have to actually think about the guys still fighting in the Middle East. Pretty fucking convenient.  
  
His mom hugs him and keeps trying to play some stupid dick sucky song about America and eagles and shit. Jesus fucking Christ.  
  
Ray sits down at the kitchen table. "Ma," he says, "for God's sake, turn it off." He pulls the flag out of Grandma's hand and drops it on the table. "You don't have to play me propaganda music or wave trial-size flags. I'm a marine. I think that's good enough, okay?"  
  
His mother wipes her eyes, smiles. "I'm sorry, Josh."  
  
Ray shrugs, grins back. "Don't be sorry. Just get me some pizza."  
  
Being on libo is nice. Retardville isn't quite as horrific as he remembered. Although there  _is_  a Starbucks, which is regrettable. Those things are  _everywhere_ . They're the Walmart of overpriced coffee.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray's first mistake at Camp Mathilda is thinking this shiny new invasion will go as smoothly as the one in Afghanistan. After all, a lot of the guys are back, men Ray trusts with his life. Rudy still runs around in a million degree heat carrying a pack full or rocks. Crazy motherfucker.  
  
The problem is, there are new marines as well. It's the officers in particular who give off the telltale stink of incompetence that no amount of cologne can hide. Schwetje in particular. And that fuckhead McGraw who runs around like he's trying to earn an Academy Award for hamming his way through  _Platoon_  or some shit. What the fuck is that about?  
  
Luckily, Ray doesn't have a lot of time to wonder because the LT has them doing run-throughs about a thousand times a day. That only leaves time for working on their piece of shit Humvee, writing letters, or jacking off.  
  
The letter from his mom comes the same day as the latest batch of kiddy  _we're thankful for our troops_  correspondence a couple of hippie dipshit teachers forced their third graders to write. His second mistake is reading the letter from little Freddie, instead of the one from his mother.  
  
He doesn't get around to his mom's letter until after chow. He expects the usual:  _I love you, I miss you, Nevada is still fucking boring, Grandma put your picture on the hood of the car so everyone can see what a super awesome hero you are, blah blah._  Only it doesn't say any of that. The letter is short. His mother's handwriting doesn't even look right. Ray understands why after the first sentence. Grandma Arlene is dead.  
  
* * *  
  
If he'd read the letter before chow he wouldn't be standing out here by the porta-potties dry heaving into the sand. Fuck it. He's got spaghetti flavored spit and orange vomit down the front of his t-shirt. Great. Here he's been content with ordering extra shit for the Humvee, rewiring comms, teaching Trombley not to be so pathetic, sweating through PT, and wondering if J-Lo's really dead for the last week. Turns out J-Lo's just fine but Arlene Person isn't.  
  
Fuck.  
  
When he'd enlisted the nation had been at peace. When all the terrorist 9/11 shit started and Bush bitched about WMDs and began declaring war left and right, Ray accepted it. He's a Marine. As a warrior, it's his job to go to war. Some dudes carry a briefcase, he carries an M-16 and a kabar. It's not like he was drafted, he fucking _enlisted_ . It's like those dudes who enlisted before Pearl Harbor. Timing is everything.   
  
Sure, he's been scared shitless about a million times. He's seen his friends hurt, he's killed enemy troops ( _people_ ), but killing is what he's been trained to do. They're not building sand castles out here for fuck's sake. If first recon doesn't spearhead the invasion, who will? The Army? Then they'd  _really_  be fucked.  
  
So Ray's never really complained about the long deployments, being away from Missouri. But right now he feels like complaining, preferably with both middle fingers, followed by his fist. Grandma Arlene was good to him, she loved him, she was proud of him long before he became a marine. She never cared if he was Josh or Ray, she just loved her grandson. And now, as stupid as it sounds, he feels a little lost without her, without her love.  
  
And now she's buried at Pinecrest Cemetery outside of Nevada and Ray's standing here trying to dig the Cope tin out of his pocket but his hands are shaking. His hands are shaking worse than the very first time Bravo got lit up.  
  
"Ray?"  
  
It's Brad. Of course. Whenever Ray's drooling dip down his chin or looking like an asshole or crying like a bitch, Brad's always around to see.  
  
The wind gusts and sand blows around them, momentarily envelopes them in tan fog.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Ray almost tells Colbert about his grandma. He knows Brad would offer an ear, a shoulder, an awkward hug, whatever. Ray's shared everything else with Brad: his hatred of Retardville, songs by his crappy band, letters from his girlfriend, care packages from his mom ( _and Grandma, those are all gone now, over with, done_ ), the status of his Athlete's Foot, that mushrooms always make him fart, that he has, in fact, drank an iced mocha and did not hate it. Ray's shared all of that and more.  
  
But he can't share this. Not now. Not yet.  
  
Ray screws his face up into a semi-believable smile..  
  
"I'm fine." He shrugs, nudges Brad with his elbow, "but this fucking sand is killing my eyes, man."  
  
* * *  
  
Someone, in one of the higher levels of retardation decided it would be fucking-A to embed a reporter with Bravo. At the very tippity-tip of the spearhead, which places him smack in the back of Ray's Humvee. So now, not only does Ray have to drive like his buddies' lives depend on him--which they do--now he's protecting a civvie as well. It's a good thing Reporter wrote  _Beaver Hunt_  or Ray might be a little pissed.  
  
At least he has somebody new to regale with his many highly-amusing anecdotes. Trombley's new too, but he doesn't count. That kid is fucking creepy. He looks like the result of a hook-up between Elijah Wood and Chucky. If Ray can keep his interaction with Trombley down to less than ten minutes, it's been a good day.  
  
If Ray had to guess which retard was in charge of making such epically retarded decisions, he'd go with Godfather or General Mattis. And then their retardese would trickle down to Encino Man and he'd only increase the retardation to heretofore unimagined heights.   
  
Said retardation including, but not limited to: embedding a reporter with Recon Marines who are invading a hostile country in possession of chemical weapons, WMDs and who the fuck knows what else, in  _unarmored_  Humvees that are about as safe as that fucking talking car. And not the cool talking car, no. Not KITT, he's talking about  _Herbie._  Actually, riding in Herbie would probably be safer, at least the motor mouth could warn them when shit was about to go down.  
  
Then again, Ray doesn't really want to compete for attention.  
  
So Ray will smile and bitch and crack jokes because that's what he does. He'll also keep one eye on the road and victors in front of him, and one on the rear view while listening to comms. He'll watch for landmarks and make sure Trombley's not sucking down Charms in the backseat. He'll remind the Reporter to wear his helmet while anticipating what Brad's next order will be. Because  _that's_  what Ray does.   
  
* * *  
  
"Oh no," Ray says, "the Ripped Fuel's wearing off." He holds out a hand toward Brad. "Quick dude, gimme."  
  
Brad cocks an eyebrow, reaches under the seat. "I am always amazed by your refined breeding and manners, Corporal Person" he says, unscrewing the cap. He hands Ray the bottle. "You're an example to us all."  
  
"I'll have you know I have fucking excellent manners," Ray replies, grabbing the bottle. He tilts his head back, pours a few capsules into his mouth. "But I'm not gonna waste them on the likes of you assholes." Ray glances in the rear view mirror. "No offense, Reporter, but I'm afraid you're an asshole by association."  
  
The reporter laughs, amused. "No offense taken. When you get to know me better you'll see I'm an asshole all on my own."  
  
Ray nods, thoughtful. "Good to know." He continues with his lecture. "For your information Brad, I only trot out the please and thank you's for really important people. Like J-Lo or my mom."  
  
Brad smiles. "Don't forget your grandma and future parole officer."  
  
Shit. Ray's stomach drops like a fucking elevator. He doesn't want Brad joking about Arlene Person. Ray doesn't want to talk about her, think about her. He squints at the highway. Goddamn, it's fucking bright out here. The sun is a blazing nail in his head. And could it  _get_  any hotter? Jesus, it's like living in a sauna. He's fucking suffocating. He fumbles between the seats for his canteen, takes a long drink. He's aware Brad is watching him, a cross between curiosity and concern on the sergeant's face. Time to change the subject.  
  
"Fuck it," Ray says, wiping water from his chin with the back of one hand. "I take it back. Manners are totally gay."  
  
Brad looks out the window. "Country music is gay."  
  
Trombley leans forward. "Gay people are gay," he says, with a smile that looks like something he tore out of a magazine and pasted on his face.  
  
"For fuck's sake, James," Ray snaps. "Gay people are not gay. I mean they're gay, but they're not  _gay_ . I grew up in Retardville and even I know that. Shit, some of the jocks at my high school were so stupid I swear the girls lost IQ points every time they fucked them. That means they  _had_  to become lesbians or risk becoming officer-level retarded. In fact, maybe that explains what's wrong with Encino Man. If he stopped boning chicks covered in stupid, or simply turned to the dick side, he wouldn't feel the need to cover his windows with fucking tape."  
  
The reporter laughs. Trombley doesn't. Brad rolls his eyes. "Did you just say 'the dick side?'"  
  
Ray grins. "Yeah. That should totally be a porno, right?" He considers. "I bet Rudy would be great in it."  
  
"It is a porno," the reporter says. "I reviewed it when I worked at  _Hustler_ ."  
  
Person risks a glance behind him, eyes wide. "War Scribe, are you shitting me?"  
  
"Nope," Wright shakes his head. He chuckles, then guffaws. "It really...it really sucked."  
  
Ray slaps the steering wheel, but he's smiling. "Just for that Reporter, now I think _you're_  gay."  
  
* * *  
  
Ray leans against the side of the victor. His t-shirt is sweat-glued to his his back and chest and it's not even 0800.  
  
A few feet away Brad, Poke, Garza and Walt observe a hamlet through binoculars. A couple of kids run around kicking a ball back and forth. Assorted moms and grandmas yell after them. Ray smiles into his tin cup. It's the same everywhere. _Don't run with that stick, look both ways when you cross the dirt road, don't get on a camel with someone you don't know._   
  
Ray's listening with one ear while Garza and Hasser talk about Haji soccer. Then Gabe says:  
  
"My grandma used to beat me with a 2x4."  
  
Person nearly drops the cup. What the  _fuck_ ?  
  
"Your grandma mean like that, Gabe?" Walt asks.  
  
"No, man. My grandma hit me because she loved me and she wanted me to turn out good."  
  
Ray's not sure wearing some Haji's hinky motorcycle helmet and boasting about retard strength equals  _good_ , but whatever. He opens another packet of creamer, pours it into the cup. Grandma Arlene never hit him once. Never even raised her voice. All she ever did was believe in him. Ray sighs, stirs the shit in the cup. What can you do? Everybody dies sooner or later. Sitting out here melting in air hotter than hairy donkey balls, Ray figures his time's coming sooner. His mind tries to slip back to the image of a dead girl lying alongside the road, her legs gone. Ray frowns, mutters  _fuck it_ , and rips open a packet of sugar.  
  
Brad speaks into his radio. "Hitman Two, this is Two One. We've had eyes on the village for over one hour now. There are seven women and children, no adult males. No sign of the men who fired those mortars. How copy?"  
  
Fick's voice crackles back. "This is Hitman Two. Solid copy."  
  
Pleased with his MacGyver culinary skills, Ray flicks his lighter, starts heating the bottom of the cup.  
  
Colbert turns his head. "Ray, what the fuck is that smell?"  
  
Person grins. Who needs care packages? He can make his own peanut butter cookies.   
  
"MRE cookies," he explains proudly. "What I did was I saved up all those creamer packets and all the sugars, and I mixed in peanut butter until I sort of made this--"  
  
Brad cuts him off. "Don't set your face on fire again," he warns.  
  
Ray huffs in annoyance. Now that? Was uncalled for. Ray turns on the street talk just to annoy Brad. Peanut butter cookies and fucking with Colbert? What could be better?  
  
"Word to the motherfuckin' street, yo! I was not the one who set my face on fire. I was the fuckin'  _victim_  and you know it."  
  
Reporter ambles over to Brad. Ray's not paying much attention, he's busy thinking about  _cookies._  Even if they turn out shitty--which they will without, you know, actual ingredients--they've got to be better than chunked mystery meat or pop tarts. When he gets home he's gonna eat a whole fucking package of Nutter Butters, yes sir.  
  
And then the hamlet is gone.  
  
One minute he's watching kids run, the next there's nothing but fire and smoke and sand.   
  
Ray drops the cup. His ears ring. A cloud of sand blows over them. He blinks, trying to see. There's nothing left to look at. The peanut better concoction puddles on the ground.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" he shouts.  
  
Doc Bryan runs up, face closed, eyes narrowed.  
  
Gabe looks at Brad in wonder. "Did we call it, Sergeant?"  
  
Brad fumbles for an answer. "I, uh...someone called it."   
  
That's right. Someone called it. Some useless fucker who didn't feel his day was complete until he killed a few innocent Hajjs. Ray runs a hand through his hair. _Fuck._  Who the hell is running this thing? Fucking  _monkeys_  could do a better job. This kind of--Ray can't even find the word--would  _never_  have happened in Afghanistan.  
  
Doc is seething. "Fucking Godfather called it. One thousand-pounder from a Navy F-18."  
  
Poke shakes his head. "God damn it."  
  
"We don't have the full picture," Brad says, ever the diplomat. But he looks shaken.   
  
Ray picks up the tin. His cookie mix is thick with sand. He closes his eyes. They sting like a bitch. From the wind. The sand. His allergies. He can't think about this. He can't think about dead kids or moms or grandmas. He can't think about home because he might realize he misses it. He can't think about his girl because she's probably moved on already, and if by some miracle she hasn't, what's Ray supposed to write her?  _Dear Sadie, how are you? I'm fine except somebody fucked up and we wiped a fucking hamlet off the face of the earth. When Godfather isn't forcing us to leave food and ammo on the side of the road he's killing civilians. Sincerely, Ray. P.S. Send cookies._  
  
Fick's back on the radio.  
  
"This is Hitman Two. RTB. Over."  
  
"Roger." Brad starts walking. "We're moving out."  
  
"Man," Walt says, disgusted, "we keep making the same fucking mistakes."  
  
Poke looks gutted. Ray swallows, dumps out the cup.   
  
"My fucking cookies got schwacked," Ray bitches. This is all he can do. He can bitch about ruined cookies which were never going to be cookies in the first place. He can't bitch about the dead civilians. If he does, he's liable to cry or scream, or both. He'll think too much about how Godfather was probably a jock back in high school, about how Godfather won't lose a minute of sleep over fuckups like this. He'll think about how Captain America is probably off high-fiving everyone because they just killed a bunch of 10 year-old insurgents.  
  
Ray can't remember the last time he's had more than 15 minutes of sleep. For the first time he's glad, because he knows now there are going to be nightmares. Ray bitches because maybe,  _maybe_  his bitching will give Poke somewhere to focus his rage. Ray's been a convenient punching bag for other people's fear, anger and bigotry plenty of times. At least he likes Poke.  
  
Espera just glares at him. But if looks could kill, Ray'd be sitting at Arlene's table in McHeaven.  
  
Ray looks around, still playing the part, because he's the clown, he's the funny guy, and if they're looking at him, they're not looking at the fucking hole in the ground.  
  
"What the fuck is his problem?" Person asks, a little too loudly.   
  
But he's not talking about Poke.


	2. Chapter 2

_Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet._  
~General James Mattis

  
  
  
He should really be used to this level of suck by now.    
  
None of the thermals work and he feels like he's driving through a really shitty 1980s two-dimensional video game. He can't tell what he's looking at, the victors keep bunching up and Brad is bitching about his driving. Nice. Like Brad could do any better.    
  
Trombley's in the backseat whining.    
  
"I don't even have a plastic bag to shoot."    
  
Ray hunches lower over the wheel and sing-songs: "Oh, now remember, James, once you fire a bullet, you can't take it back." Fucking Whopper Junior.    
  
Helicopters buzz above them and then white explosions bloom directly ahead. What the fuck happened to danger close? Ray flinches, it's like being blinded by a million flash bulbs.    
  
"God  _damn_  it!" he hisses.    
  
Brad remains calm, as usual. He manages to sound bored when he radios Fick. If Ray wasn't busy trying not to drive off the road he'd be impressed.    
  
"Two Actual, this is Two One. Interrogative, do we have any idea what those Cobras are shooting at?"    
  
"Negative, Two One," Fick responds. "We have no comms with the Cobras, over."    
  
Ray clenches his teeth. Of course we don't. Having comms would make sense and competence of any kind is strictly forbidden in this sandbox, homes.    
  
There are more explosions. Ray blinks but the afterimages linger like ghosts.    
  
Ray's fingers are literally cramping around the wheel. If they get hit, his hands are gonna end up in the engine, just like that other poor asshole. "Fuck!" he yells, more frustrated than afraid.    
  
"Why are we slowing, Ray?"    
  
Brad's got that tone of voice that automatically makes Ray want to drive even slower. Still, Ray's a fucking professional, so he explains the problem without reciprocating Brad's bitchery.    
  
"My NVGs keep going off. It's from the fucking flashes from the rockets keep washing them out, and I can't see shit."    
  
"Two Actual, interrogative. Are we to continue forward into area being lit by those Cobras?" Brad asks.    
  
"Two One, maintain direction and speed. Over."    
  
Oh, okay. That's awesome. No problem. Ray squints some more, tries adjusting the NVG settings.    
  
"Roger that."    
  
Fick comes back on comms. "Cobras are prepping the east side of the river, over."    


"Hold your sectors!" Brad calls.    
  
And then the Cobras are over them.    
  
Shell casings fall like hail. They bounce and  _ping_  off the sides of the Humvee, the machine gun, the doors.    
  
Ray doesn't even flinch. He's sweating. His eyes ache. A casing bounces off his shoulder and he grimaces. The little fucker's hot and it stings.    
  
Up top, Hasser yells, "Shit!"    
  
Reporter squirms in the backseat. "Fuck!"    
  
Brad keeps his eye on the scope of his gun. "You all right, Walt?"    
  
Walt laughs nervously. "Nothing. Shell cases hit me."    
  
Finally, there's the bridge. Thank Christ. Wait, what? There's something in the road. Some kind of ditch, maybe. He swerves carefully around it.    
  
"Why are we turning, Ray?" Brad sounds annoyed.    
  
Person leans forward. He feels like his NVGs are inches from the windshield.    
  
"There was a ditch or something in the road," he says absently. A gray, rectangular shape looms ahead. Shit. He breaks. "Hey, something's blocking the bridge."    
  
Brad calls up to Hasser. "You see it, Walt?"    
  
"Yeah," Walt calls, "it's like a...Connex box in the middle of the road."    
  
Brad radios Fick. "All Hitman Two Victors, be advised, there is an obstacle in front of the bridge. We cannot continue forward."    
  
"Hitman Two One, is there any way around it?" Fick asks.    
  
Ray rolls his eyes. Sure. He'll just stick his arms out the window and start flapping. Maybe they should all start thinking fucking happy thoughts.    
  
"Negative, Hitman Two. We need to peel." Brad turns to Ray. "Ray, I need us to egress immediately. We're in a kill zone here."    
  
Ray almost asks  _you think?_  but decides to save his sarcasm for when they're not in danger of imminent death. "Walt, can you see the ditch that I just drove past?"    
  
"Yeah, it ain't a ditch. It's like a drainpipe that's been drug on the road," Walt says.    
  
"You have to make a three-point turn here," Brad orders. "Turn around."    
  
Ray turns the wheel, grits his teeth. As if he didn't already fucking know that. Maybe Brad thinks he came down with a case of the retards. It  _is_  catching after all.    
  
Trombley's actually helpful. "I got trees on my left, maybe five meters off the road."    
  
Shit. Poke's in the way. He can't make it.    
  
"Fuck. Hey, Brad, Espera's vehicle is in front of us. We're fucking boxed in!" Ray licks his lips, tries to think. If only they had ass with them, an LAV could drive right over this fucking shit. He needs to get Brad out of here. Bullets are gonna fly any second and they're sitting ducks. Fuck fuckfuckfuck  _fuck_ .    
  
"I don't got nobody out here," Trombley says from the back.    
  
That's because he's probably on the lookout for little kids or plastic bags.    
  
"I got nothing," Hasser adds.    
  
Yeah right. Like the Hajis set up the road block just for fun. Ray presses the comm button. "Two One Bravo, this is Two One Alpha. We need you to turn around, over."    
  
There's a bunch of back and forthing on comms which essentially boils down to  _sorry dawg, you're still fucked._   
  
Brad starts humming softly, then singing under his breath. Fick's still trying to get everybody moving when Colbert says, very quietly:    
  
"There are men in the trees."    
  
He says this as if he's announcing the time. Then, louder: "Contact right!"    
  
And the shooting starts.    
  
The noise is deafening. Every time Walt fires Ray feels like he's been punched in the ear. Trombley and Brad are yelling but Ray has no idea what they're saying. Bullets crack against the Humvee. Ray prays for the safety of the guys first, his Humvee's tires second.    
  
The comms burble constantly, Marines are calling out positions, getting out of vehicles, calling for ammo. Captain America's probably shitting his pants right now.   
  
Ray considers pulling out his M-16 but his primary concern is getting everyone the fuck out of here, not shooting some Haji asshole hiding behind a tree.    
  
"Ray," Brad asks, "how's our progress egressing?"    
  
There is no fucking progress. Person grabs the radio. He speaks loudly and enunciates carefully. "All Hitman Victors, this is Two One. Is it at  _all_  possible for _any_  of you to back up?"    
  
Baptista answers, his English rapidly sliding into a bunch of Portuguese bullshit.    
  
Okay. Now Ray is  _pissed._  The adrenaline is long gone. It leaves behind an endless weariness and a dull, pulsing anger. His ears don't stop ringing.    
  
"Goddamn Baptista! How the fuck would he like it if I joined the Brazilian Marines and only spoke English?"    
  
As the driver, the lives of everyone in the victor depend on him. A stopped Humvee is nothing but a fucking bulls-eye. No one is listening to him and he's fucking sick of it. Ray Person is twenty-two years old but right now he feels twice that. Three times, even. Christ.    
  
Somewhere nearby Ray can hear Stafford shouting about his four o'clock. It sounds like Q-Tip's in the bottom of a barrel.    
  
Ray gets out of the Humvee. The radio chatters constantly. The gun fire does not let up. Bullets buzz past him like bees.    
  
Ray stands in the middle of the chaos and shouts so loud his throat hurts.    
  
"Lilley! What the  _fuck_ ? Would you  _please_ . Back. The fuck. Up!"    
  
Ray would trade anything to get Alpha out of here. Shit, he'd spend a day listening to Sixta's bullshit Nell retardese with a smile on his face.    
  
None of the victors move.    
  
"This is not going well!" Person shouts as the gets back into the victor. He slams the door. Another bullet  _pinks_  off.    
  
But then Lieutenant Fick of the baby face and big balls succeeds in unfucking things. Ray's never been in big gay love with a dude, but hot  _damn_ . If Fick keeps getting shit done, Ray might just have to give Nate a big wet kiss. With tongue. And shit, Ray's not even first in line for the kissathon. Brad's been making heart-shaped eyes at Fick ever since he got the the LSV for Walt's MK-19.    
  
The drive back takes forever and a half. He still can't see the road for shit but at least no one's shooting at them. Brad hums the whole way back, like they're on a fucking road trip. Trombley bitches he only got to kill three Hajis. Apparently he was hoping for a super fun night of genocide. Poor little psycho. Reporter's shivering like he's in the middle of a seizure. Ray feels bad for the guy, but there's nothing he can do.    
  
Except drive. Ray doesn't say a word the whole drive back to camp.    
  
* * *    
  
Ray's just getting started bitching about Sixta when he spots Brad running around like a retard. He's got his shirt off so everybody can see his gay-ass tattoo. Not that all tattoos are gay. Mostly, just Brad's. Ray's got his own tats. They're cool. Simple. Badass. He's got a fucking cowboy for Christ's sake. What does Brad have? A bunch of gay anime shit. Anime is nothing but big-eyed Japanese bullshit that  _wishes_  it could grow up to be as cool as shit like  _V for Vendetta_  and  _Preacher._   
  
Brad's running in a big circle, then he does a figure eight, arms outstretched like he's a fucking airplane. What in the  _fuck_ ? War Scribe has a front row view of Brad's crazy. Figures. Colbert makes another pass, smiling beatifically.    
  
Ray stands beside Reporter, half curious, half suspicious. "What, did you, like, give him some  _Rolling Stone_  drugs or something?"    
  
Reporter shakes his head. He looks as confused as Ray.    
  
"No. "    
  
"What the fuck did you do to him?" Ray demands. Christ, if Brad's busy going bug shit, how's he supposed to keep Ray from losing it? Seriously, the sergeant needs to get his priorities straight.    
  
"Just asked him what he would be if he wasn't a Marine," Reporter explains slowly.    
  
"Oh my god," Ray yells, "he wants to be a ballerina? That's  _my_  fuckin' dream!"    
  
Colbert whoops and runs past again, circles back to stop in front of Ray and Wright. He drops to his knees.    
  
"Better now," Brad sighs. He stands and heads toward their Humvee. "Ray, I want you to gather the team."    
  
Uh. Okay. "All right." Maybe Brad wants to pretend he's a Humvee next.    
  
Colbert rummages in their victor, calls out to the assembled group. "Drop your pots, gents. Sergeant Colbert's giving you a pass."    
  
Ray sits on the dead grass, waiting. Brad walks up, drops down beside Ray with a big pack.    
  
"There's something I've been keeping from you," Brad admits. "I wasn't sure we were gonna live to share this moment." He unzips the pack slowly, looks meaningfully from Ray to Reporter.    
  
Ray stares at the ruck, wondering what marvel Brad's about to unveil. Maybe it's his long-hidden sense of humor.    
  
And lo, Brad pulls a can of Beefaroni out of his pack.    
  
Ray gasps. Sweet Jesus, the sneaky bastard brought a can of  _home_  with him. Ray is in awe.    
  
"Chef Boyardee, the master!"    
  
Brad hands the can to Ray with a smile. "To celebrate." Then he calls to James. "Trombley, get a fire going." He tosses the next can to Hasser. "Walt, here."    
  
Ray smirks at Brad. "You deceiving, conniving, Hebrew motherfucker." He shakes the can. "How were you gonna keep this from your dearest pal, Ray-Ray?"    
  
Brad lifts an eyebrow, smug. "I got one more secret to share." He pulls something else from the bag, holds up a brand new copy of  _Juggs._   
  
Holy  _shit._  "Juggs!" Ray yelps. Literature of the gods! He grabs for it. So does Reporter.    
  
Brad yanks it back. "No, no, no, no, no!" His voice jumps a few octaves. "Wait! Wait! Wait! Not yet. I need, I need some time with this alone."    
  
Fuck  _that_ . "Come on," Ray wheedles. "Just give me one."    
  
"Just calm down. You'll get your sloppy seconds with Jasmine. And Ray, you gotta share with Trombley."    
  
Oh Christ, what is Brad  _doing_  to him?    
  
"What?" Ray shrieks, affronted. "He'll kill her!"    
  
James smiles his creepoid smile. "Eat, fuck, kill, all the same, right?"    
  
And once again Trombley proves he's as unhinged as a trailer park screen door. "Yeah," Ray nods, "all the same if you're a fucking  _psycho_ ." Apparently Trombley's gonna fuck his can of Beefaroni and gnaw on Yasmine's picture. God help his wife. Ray tries to dissuade Colbert from his terrifying share with Trombley plan. "Brad, I--I'm telling you, I fear for Jasmine."    
  
Reporter pipes up. "Speaking of which, one of you guys still has my girlfriend's picture."    
  
Oops. Ray looks around Brad at Wright. He rubs the back of his head. "Dude, I hate to tell you this, but...your girlfriend's kind of a whore," Ray says, his voice laced with regret.    
  
Reporter stares at him. He looks like he's not sure whether to laugh or be offended. "What?"    
  
Ray nods sadly. It's best Reporter learns the truth from his friends. "Yeah, last time I saw her, she was doing all of H&S company."    
  
Brad agrees. "She doesn't deserve you, man."    
  
Reporter stares at them, mouth agape.    
  
Aw, poor War Scribe. Maybe Ray'll let him spend some time with Jasmine.  _Later._   
  
Garza calls Lilley over. He grins at the Beefaroni. "Brah, civilian food gives me the munchies! Mmmm."    
  
Brad throws Lilley a can.    
  
Lilley beams. "Thanks, Brad."    
  
Brad holds out a can to Poke. "Beefaroni?"    
  
Espera makes a disgusted face.    
  
Brad gives him a look. "What's your problem?"    
  
Espera glares. "Last time the white man gave my people something, it was blankets laced with typhoid."    
  
Brad smiles sweetly. "Poke, can't we all just...get along?" When Brad throws a can, Espera catches it.    
  
Garza calls to Trombley. "Hey, Whopper Jr., you got any Tabasco to go with this?"    
  
Reporter points at Garza, almost triumphant. "Okay, there it is again. You just called him Whopper Jr. Now what the hell is that about?"    
  
Ray sighs. It figures James is proud of this shit. They should call him french fry instead. Fucking freak.    
  
"We call our man Whopper Jr. because they're sold at Burger King," Lilley explains. At Reporter's blank look, Lilley repeats: "Burger. King."    
  
Reporter blinks. He looks mildly disgusted as the penny drops. "Right."    
  
"B.K. Baby killer." Lilley says. Christ. And people think Ray talks too much? This guy won't shut up. "Trombley's our little Whopper Jr. ever since he shot those shepherds."    
  
Walt looks up from his Beefaroni.    
  
Okay. Enough of this bullshit. Brad's still pulling cans out of his pack like they're loaves and fishes.    
  
"Damn Brad, what else you got hidden in the Humvee?" Ray asks. "A fat chick?" Or maybe a Foosball table. With Brad you never fucking know.    
  
Espera's giving Trombley his death glare. "Shoot some civilians, you get a reputation. Right?"    
  
And  _fuck._  So much for Ray's super subtle change of topic. Walter looks like Poke just kicked him in the nuts. Walter is no goddamn Trombley.    
  
Ray looks at Hasser. He's aware he just dribbled fake tomato sauce down his chin but that's okay. He's okay with giving Walt something to laugh at. Ray lost his dignity right around age twelve. Most days he doesn't even miss it.    
  
"Walt.  _Walt._ ," Ray says. "He didn't mean that." Ray doesn't have to add  _about you._ Everybody already knows.    
  
Hasser's face relaxes. He laughs hesitantly, as if he's forgotten how. Maybe he has. He stares at Ray, smiles.    
  
"What?" Ray asks, mouth full.    
  
Walt laughs again, some of the darkness around his eyes dissipates. "You're a fuckin' messed up hick," Walt chides. "You can't even eat ravioli."    
  
Person cocks an eyebrow, flashes a finely honed  _who, me?_  look. "I eat ravioli," he says. And technically, it's Beefaroni. But he decides not to point that out.    
  
Everyone laughs. Ray nods in satisfaction. It's all good, brother.    
  
* * *    
  
The next few days are progressively less good.    
  
Rudy's still mopey about losing Pappy. Nobody wants those Delta Company retards around. Brad is constantly bitching at him to focus, but it's a little hard because he's busy trying not to drive over mines or severed body parts lying in the road. And everywhere Ray looks there are throngs of desperate Iraqi civilians trying to salvage whatever shit they can. At one stop a bunch of refugees bring their children to Doc. A three month old baby dies in Lilley's arms. Lilley cries so hard a blood vessel breaks in one eye. Doc Bryan sits with him for almost hour an hour. Then they have to roll.    
  
People have made fun of Ray his whole life for the way he talks, where he's from. But Jesus Christ, even at the worst times, right after his dad left, there was food, a house, clothes. Maybe it was a shitty house with peeling paint and his clothes were from Goodwill, but he still had a PS2, tons of CDs, books. Plenty of stuff. Seeing these people staggering along the road, standing beside ruined houses, shuffling past dogs gorging themselves on corpses makes Ray feel sick. He feels like they've gone back in time a thousand years, five thousand. These people are still looking for a promised land. Good fucking luck.    
  
In Baghdad most of the people are living in houses. Kids wave and blow kisses. But there's no water, the streets are full of sewage, and every other guy is pandering for pills. A bunch of assholes nearly block their Humvee asking for valium. Christ, what do they need it for? The women are doing all the work.    
  
Brad's obsessed with digging bombs out of Iraqi back yards, and Fick looks like he wants to punch everyone outside of Bravo Two in the face. Ray leans his head against the victor window, watches an old woman scoop a pail full of shit water out of a pothole. A toddler hangs off her hip, his face pockmarked with fresh scabs. The interior of the Humvee is stifling. Ray has a splitting headache. Christ, if he did have valium he sure as hell wouldn't share it.    
  
Baghdad is more or less in ruins. Mission accomplished. It's constant chaos. He's taken so much Ripped Fuel in the past month it barely has an effect. His hands shake from the caffeine, ephedra and nicotine cocktail, but that's about it. Sometimes he can't tell if he's awake or not. When he does sleep, he dreams he's still driving, head down, shoulders hunched. He wakes up with neck muscles so stiff from stress his spine feels like rebar.    
  
Mail catches up to them at the cigarette factory. Ray's hoping for a letter from Sadie. There's nothing. He half expects the stupid turret shield to show up now that they don't need it. It doesn't. General Mattis probably "requisitioned" it for H&S.    
  
Ray lies beside the front tire, curled on his side. When he was still at Mathilda, Sadie had written about moving in together once he got home. Now that going home is an actual possibility, he doesn't know what to tell her. He feels done with Iraq, but Missouri feels just as unreal. He can't stand the thought of coming home to yellow streamers and shitty eagle music without his grandma. If he doesn't belong here and he doesn't belong at home, where the fuck is he supposed to go? He didn't feel this way after OEF.    
  
Things have finally slowed down. Ferrando and Mattis are busy patting each other on the back with one hand, probably giving each other hand jobs with the other. This means Ray has time to sleep for more than forty-five minutes at a stretch. Except every time he closes his eyes he sees the girl on the side of the road. He sees the hamlet vaporized. He sees the hole in Rudy's windshield, a lone arm lying in a ditch, the kid with the dead eyes and scabby face.    
  
It's all so fucking random. What good is barreling through a country, bombing the shit of towns and leaving the civilians homeless? Leaving them helpless against future Fedayeen attacks? What happens when the Iraqis realize America is the instigator of their country's collapse and not some great liberator?    
  
Ray looks up at the sky. Fingers of gray smoke pierce the wide blue expanse. Dozens of factories burn in the distance. Everybody's blowing shit up just because they can. Ray rubs his eyes, sighs. He's thinking too much. Marines don't do clean up duty. They destroy. They kill.    
  
Looking at it that way, the invasion's been a fucking success.    
  
* * *    
  
On the way to Al Hillah, Ray crawls into the backseat beside the Reporter. Wright looks at him in surprise, then hands him a blanket. He gives Ray's shoulder a quick pat and Person feels absurdly grateful. He thinks he actually might cry, which tells him he needs to hurry up and go to sleep right fucking now.    
  
There's a moment of silence. Then Brad says, "Looks like it's your turn to drive, Trombley."    
  
Ray's asleep before Trombely even starts the engine. Ray wakes up in time to realize the guys have been singing motherfucking  _King of the Road_  without him. He rubs his face, still ( _always_ ) tired. What a bunch of heartless cocksucking bastard fucksticks.    
  
* * *    
  
The next day Ray goes silent.    
  
It's like turning a switch.    
  
The sarcasm, lame jokes, lectures on crazy-ass dictators and the global benefits of good pussy, the singing, they're all over. It's not a conscious decision on Ray's part. He simply has nothing left to say. He feels stretched too tight, too thin. He is empty.   
  
Most of the guys don't notice Ray's sudden quiet. Everybody's too happy to be alive, too eager to get drunk, too acclimated to retardation.    
  
Brad's not most guys. He knows something's wrong. He keeps shooting little concerned looks at Ray, tries to fill in the quiet with his own stories and insults. Even worse, he lets James babble on about more baby names. Fuck it, Trombley should just name the kid Igotta Crazydad and be done with it.    
  
Hasser, Trombley, Colbert and Person are sitting together when Fick walks up. He has paperwork for Brad, news for all of them.    
  
"This war has an official name now," Fick tells them. "Operation Iraqi Freedom."    
  
Ray stares at the cinder block wall. He's counting the neat rectangles of stone because that's far better than thinking. He doesn't respond to the LT's statement.    
  
Walt does. "Ooh-rah, sir. Ooh-rah."    
  
They watch Fick leave.    
  
"I don't miss anything from home," Brad announces, like he's fucking proud. He blows out his lips, reconsiders. "The only exception is my bike. I miss that." He smiles faintly. "Speed, solitude, and no one can touch me." He glances over at Person, pokes Ray's arm. "Hey, where the fuck did you go? You haven't said two words since Baghdad."    
  
Ray's only been half listening. Everything feels dark and heavy, like he's under water. At Colbert's question he swims to the surface, tries to focus on Brad. It takes a while.    
  
"No more Ripped Fuel," he admits quietly. He looks around dismally. "Man, it seems no matter where we go as Marines, it's always some fucking shit-hole." The Marines need a new slogan.  _The few. The proud. Stuck in a shit-hole._   
  
Reporter comes up carrying his bags. He looks expectant, nervous.    
  
"Well, I'll see y'all," he says brightly. He looks from Ray to Walt to Brad. "Uh, thanks."   
  
Brad nods sagely. "Stay frosty."    
  
Reporter stares at them a minute longer, as if he's expecting a round of weepy hugs or fervent pinky swears promising they'll all be bestest friends forever. Ray manages a nod and a half smile. He likes Wright. He wishes him well. Who knows, maybe Ray will even read Reporter's story to see just how retarded he makes them look. God knows it won't take much.    
  
The war scribe walks off, duffel over his shoulder. Ray wonders if he ever got his girlfriend's picture back.    
  
Poke ambles up to their little group, football in hand.    
  
"Hey, yo." He gives the football a little toss. "We're gonna play some guys from Alpha. You guys up for that?" He grins. "Ooh-rah, motherfuckers."    
  
The thought of jocking out doesn't really appeal to Ray, but then again, maybe the exercise will do him good. He certainly needs  _something_ . He took a shower this morning--which,  _awesome_ \--but he still feels gritty. Like he's covered in a fine patina of sand no matter how much he scrubs. Then again, maybe it's not sand at all. Maybe it's despair. Jesus jumping Christ. Now that right there? Is fucking pathetic. Okay then, homes. Time to sweat this emo bullshit out.    
  
Ray hops down from table he's been sitting on. "Fuck it. I'll play."    
  
Brad offers him a smile. "Back among the living?"    
  
Ray isn't sure yet. But he follows Espera.    
  
* * *    
  
Ray's not much of a football player, but it's fun to insult Rudy. And then Patterson wails on Encino Man which makes the game infinitely more interesting. Not to mention the best sport ever. If football was all about punching retards like Encino Man and Captain America, Ray might play more often.    
  
Everybody talks shit. Laughter and curses hang heavy in the humid air. So does a thin wire of tension.    
  
Ray faces Rudy on the scrimmage line. Person smirks.    
  
"Hey, check it out! Rudy waxed his chest for the big game! Missed a spot there on your thigh, there, buddy." Person makes a  _bring it_  motion. "Come on, come on."    
  
Jacks calls: "Hut one, hut two."    
  
And Rudy, that motherfucking sonofabitch dharma-loving shithead knocks him down. Ray's flat on his back. His shoulder's on fire. That fucking  _asshole_ .    
  
The sun glares.    
  
So does Ray.    
  
Somebody laughs.    
  
They're laughing at  _him_ .    
  
Josh Ray Person is lying on his back in Sandfuck, Iraq, but he's also lying in the parking lot back at Nevada East, blood on his chin. And both realities  _suck._   
  
Ray pushes himself up, seething. He screams "Motherfucker!" at Rudy's back, and runs. He runs, legs pumping, head down, and knocks Reyes right to the ground. It feels like fucking victory. Like destiny. Ooh-fucking-rah.    
  
The feeling lasts for approximately one second.    
  
Then Rudy's face goes red and he twists on top of Ray. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"    
  
Gunny's yelling. "Let him go!"    
  
Ray is in favor of Rudy following Wynn's suggestion.    
  
Instead, Reyes locks his legs around Ray's head and proceeds to punch him in the face. Repeatedly. It motherfucking  _hurts_ . It hurts because Rudy's fist is a rock, it hurts because Ray is humiliated, because Fruity fucking Rudy is beating the crap out of him. It hurts because even though he's a Marine, he's  _still_  a loser, still getting shit on. It's not fair. Rudy's pounding on him, but it feels like Rufus, it feels like every goddamn asshole jock he's ever known.    
  
"Rudy, Rudy! C'mon, Rudy!" Jacks yells, pulling at Reyes.    
  
Ray tries to twist out of Rudy's fucking ninja grip. Chaffin and Gunny finally drag Rudy off him. Manimal helps Ray to his feet.    
  
"Motherfucker!" Ray screams, spittle flying. "You goddamn fucking piece of shit! Rudy, you fucking PTSD psycho! You're just like every other jock piece of shit in high school!"  He shoves Manimal away. "Get the fuck off of me!"    
  
Poke calls to him. "Hey Person, chill! Chill." Then softer: "Maybe we shouldn't play football again."    
  
Yeah, good call, Tony.    
  
Ray stalks away. He's crying. Fuck it. He's such an asshole. He wipes savagely at his face. Fuck. Fuck everything. What's wrong with him? He is  _so_  fucked. Rudy's fucked. Everyone in this godforsaken desert shit-hole is fucked.    
  
Rudy's voice comes after him, all anger gone. Now there's only sorrow, the guilt audible in every syllable.    
  
"Ray! Brother!  _Ray!_ "    
  
It's too late. Ray can't go back, doesn't want to go back. He wipes his face again. Christ, he just can't stop the tears. He can't tell if he's crying from the pain, shame, or because something deep inside him just broke.    
  
Suddenly Brad's at his side, watching him. Fick's voice pops into Ray's head:  _observe everything, admire nothing._   
  
"You all right?"    
  
Ray almost laughs. No, he most certainly is not. But if Ray stops to talk to Brad, if he even  _looks_  at Colbert, Ray's pretty sure he'll lose it completely. And not in a pretend airplane kind of way.    
  
So he ignores Brad and keeps walking, just as fast as he fucking can.    
  
* * *    
  
He ends up in his Humvee. Everyone else is off doing whatever. Only Dirty Earl is nearby, tinkering beneath the hood of his victor. Dirty pretends not to see Ray and Ray pretends not to see him, so it all works out.    
  
Person leans his throbbing head against the steering wheel and lets himself cry. Not for long. He gives himself a minute, two at the most. He grips the wheel loosely and cries out as much suck as he can. He cries for all the dead Haji civilians. And the living ones. He cries for Pappy, for Rudy, for himself. He cries for the boundless, constant, stupidity that surrounds him. Lastly, he cries for Arlene Person.    
  
When Ray's done, he wipes his face on his sleeve, runs a hand through his hair. He sniffs, coughs, rubs his nose. His bruised face still hurts, but his head feels a little lighter. Cleaner, maybe.    
  
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and exhales slowly. Okay. Well.  _That's_ done with. Now what? Ray makes a list in his head.    
  
What he needs is to go home and spend some time with his mom. Go swimming. Sleep in his own bed. Visit Grandma Arlene's grave. He needs to spend some time by himself. He needs to read a really good mystery. Go to a museum. Eat a baked potato. Drive a real car.    
  
And he needs to fuck Sadie. Badly. And frequently. He needs to put his face in her long, dark hair so he can smell something good, something that's not rotting feet or bloated corpses or sweat or shit or piss. Her hair smells like apples. Fuck, maybe he should have had Sadie send him a bottle of her shampoo. He could have been huffing it in his ranger grave all this time. There's something else for the list: eat a fucking apple.    
  
Time passes. The sun swings lower. Dirty takes off. So does Ray. He heads back toward the main building, thinking about Brad, about Poke. He'll miss them. He'll miss a lot of guys. Even Rudy. But some ( _most_ ) of them he never wants to see again. _Ever._   
  
There's a table by the door with a decprepit coffee maker. The thing looks older than Ray, but the styrofoam cups of November Juliet are going fast. Ray scans the room, spots Brad at a far table and grabs two cups.    
  
There's a big group gathered around Lilley and a laptop. Ray rolls his eyes and heads for Colbert.    
  
Lilley's home movie starts. Johnny Cash's gravel voice informs them all the man comes around.    
  
Ray hands Brad the cup. Brad takes it, gives Ray a searching look. Ray knows Brad's worried about him. He flashes a quick  _you believe this shit?_  look at Colbert.    
  
Colbert smiles his perfect teeth smile. Brad probably got a Crest White Strip-sponsored scholarship, come to think of it.    
  
Ray lets this thought go and smiles back. His smile says  _you don't have to worry._   
  
Brad's says  _you know best, you Whiskey Tango moron._   
  
They've learned to speak with silence. They've learned to use the quiet space between them to say what words can't. This is the way brothers speak the world over.    
  
Brad doesn't stay to watch the movie. Ray didn't expect he would. Brad isn't interested. He just lived through this bullshit, why sit through it again?    
  
Ray wanders close enough to stand by Rudy, to let his proximity show he's not mad. He's just tired. He's going to go home and sleep for a month. He doesn't want to fire his M-16 again if he can help it. Fuck joining a SWAT team or the police. He's done killing. He already got some.    
  
Rudy touches Ray's shoulder. The gesture is more than an apology; it's an affirmation of their friendship. Again, Ray lets the silence speak for him. Besides, it's a little too noisy for Ray to tell Reyes he's gayer than a pink unicorn shitting rainbows. That'll have to wait for later.    
  
Lilley's footage bounces around like  _Operation Blair Witch_ . While Trombley relives every glorious trigger pull, Ray's fellow Marines leave in ones and twos. There's a quick image of the little girl on the side of the road. That's Ray's cue to get the fuck out.    
  
Back outside, he pulls a pack of Iraqi cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights one up, inhales. Compared to the Cope it packs all the punch of wet newspaper, but whatever. He doesn't want to go back to Sadie spitting tobacco all over the place. Talk about feeling like a hillbilly loser. Christ.    
  
He likes holding the cigarette, giving his hands something to do. Maybe he'll pick up his guitar when he gets home. Write Sadie a song. Write a song about the war.    
  
Or not.    
  
"Hey Pers. You okay?"    
  
Ray looks over his shoulder. Doc Bryan and Hasser are sitting on the hood of jeep.    
  
Ray makes a face, wags his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture.    
  
Doc nods. Walt offers a crooked smile.    
  
Another silent conversation.    
  
Ray shrugs, keeps walking. He inhales again, blows out a perfect smoke ring. Huh, look at that. He's still got it.    
  
He heads toward the distant row of tents, in search of Brad. God knows he could go for some more Chef Boyardee. 


End file.
